1 Sword.
P.
SONNET.
| O fairest flow'r; no sooner blown than blasted, Soft silken primrose faded timelessly.—Milton. |
| It was an infant dying! and I stood Watching beside its couch, to mark how Death, His hour being come, would steal away the breath Of one so young, so innocent, so good. Friends also waited near—and now the blood 'Gan leave the tender cheek, and the dark eye To lose its wonted lustre. Suddenly Slight tremblings o'er him came; anon, subdued To utter passiveness, the sufferer lay, Far, far more beautiful in his decay Than e'er methought before! I held his hand Fast lock'd in mine, and felt more feebly flow The pulse already faint and fluttering. Lo! It ceased; I turn'd, and bow'd to God's command.1 |
1 Samuel II. Chap. xii.—22, 23.
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